The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1)

by T. J. Garrett

  The headless body stood still for a moment, then crashed to the ground in a jangle of clattering armour. Arfael cursed under his breath. He picked up the head and grabbed the trooper by the shoulder, then quickly pulled the corpse behind the tree where he had been hiding. He put the head beside the body then covered it as best he could with a few dead branches.

  Looking down at the makeshift grave, Arfael slowly shook his head. If that troop had not already gone, they might have alerted every Kel’madden for half a mile. Power or not, he had to be more careful. Yes, he could run across the field and kill half their officers, but he was here for Vila. Whatever else, he had to remember that.

  Arfael crouched beside the corpse, waiting to see if somebody would miss the man and come back, but he heard no calls, nor saw anyone returning. He slowly rose and continued along the tree line. Pulling a branch out of his way, he noticed his fingers were darkening, and small flecks of steel were falling from his arm. He’d waited too long. In another hour, he would lose much of his armour.

  Where was Vila? Was she in one of those tents not fifty paces in front of him? Arfael ran across the field that bordered the Kel’madden camp and hid behind a low thicket. Turasan had had his troopers line up all along the stream half a mile to the west. Arfael had no problem seeing them; fires were burning ready for the flaming arrows. To the east, dragons were in the field between the tents and the thicket behind which he now crouched. There were only six; he wondered where the other dragons might be. Still, the fewer, the better—for him, at least.

  He had intended to run straight at Vila. Kill her quickly, and be gone before anyone knew what had happened. It was a reasonable plan, given his current condition—it would probably take fifty troopers to stop him. But if he was losing his armour…

  To complicate matters further, he could sense that Vila kept moving from one area to another. Maybe he should find her tent and wait? Yes, that would work well enough. He doubted she could sense him the way he could her… Hide in her tent and attack as soon as she showed herself. He wouldn’t need armour for that.

  He poked his head above the thicket. First, he had to get past the dragons. Why were they just sitting in the field?

  He sensed something behind him.

  “I know you’re there, Gialyn. What do you want?”

  CHAPTER 21

  When All Else Fails

  “Strike at their infantry”, Daric yelled. “Move forward.”

  Behind him, the trumpeter blasted out a short melody, broadcasting his orders. The shrill tones were echoed along the front by other trumpeters.

  All around, city guards and soldiers struggled to maintain the line. The troopers—the finest Toi’ildrieg had to offer, so Daric had heard—were charging relentlessly: charging with a discipline Daric had never encountered before. They made the King’s personal guard look like little more than tavern doormen. Their dark armour shone as they swung long axes and swords. Now and then, Daric caught a glimpse of a determined set of eyes through the slit of a trooper’s helmet. What he saw spoke of cold determination—fearless determination. These were not the same men the Kel’madden general had sent to the Highgate. These troopers were the elite warriors, trained to show no mercy and honed on the battlefields of Toi’ildreig.

  Daric could sense Cal and the trumpeter watching as he paced back and forth. This battle was taking too long. If they didn’t break through soon, they would have to retreat, reform their ranks, and try again somewhere else—probably losing a fifth of his men in the process.

  Rubbing his neck, Daric tried not to mumble. He always did that when he was anxious: muttered his thoughts out loud. It helped him, but likely gave a bad impression to anyone close enough to hear. Now he was a major, he could not afford to appear indecisive.

  Now and then, Cal would shout orders at the archers lined at their rear, sometimes in Common, sometimes in the old tongue. The Cren’dair had proven their worth a dozen times. Thus far, their arrows had inflicted a heavy toll on the Kel’madden. If only the same could be said of the Surabhan infantry. Oh, they did as much as Daric had expected of them, but few showed real heart. If they were going to win the day, he needed passion and purpose from his men, not indifference. Most fought defensively.

  Daric walked with one eye on the lines and the other on the ground in front of him—with all the fighting, the once-green field had turned to mud. He didn’t want to break an ankle in an unseen pothole. Lightning pierced the darkness, striking a nearby tree. He crouched down behind cover—an upturned cart, left by the Kel’madden. Cal and the trumpeter joined him. Daric shook his head slowly and looked up at the black clouds. If this storm continued to get worse, they would have to rethink some of their plans. For one, the dragons would not be much use. Daric had hoped Ban or Lyduk would be willing to fly over the battlefield and send reports on the Kel’madden. Now, he doubted they would be able to see much of anything. And if they flew low enough to witness the enemy’s movements, they would likely risk injury from the Kel’madden archers. No, the wolves were providing them with enough intelligence; it wasn’t worth endangering the dragons for that little bit extra. And besides, Vila would be having the same trouble with her dragons.

  Daric poked his head up above the cart and looked around. It was difficult to see much more than thirty paces in any direction. Apart from the rain, thick blankets of smoke were rolling across the field from the north—probably from the Kel’madden fires. Many of his soldiers had been reduced to prowling around, filling in gaps in the lines, and fighting when they stumbled upon the enemy. Maybe he should have insisted on attacking in the morning.

  What battle lines there were, were in the middle of the field. An assault on the centre might gain him ground, but Daric had no way of knowing if the troopers were circling around behind his lines. He hoped the four units to the east were holding their ground, and the wolves in the west were succeeding; the last thing he needed was the Kel’madden coming at them from the rear.

  They needed to push through, split the Kel’madden hammer in two. However, without the dragons to clear the way, it would mean committing forces currently defending the road. Not an easy choice to make: it would leave their back vulnerable for a chance at an uncertain advantage. And yet, it seemed the better plan: attempt to break the troopers in two, rather than sit tight and let the enemy pick his men off one by one. That would be the likely outcome, if they didn’t move soon—they were still outnumbered. Where were the Toyans?

  Daric waved Cal closer. “You’ll have to take your Cren and half the reserves. Try to punch a hole close to the eastern flank. Look for the Toyans. If they are there, direct them to circle round and come on the main group from the northeast. That should weaken this line enough for us to push forward.”

  “They will need to hurry,” Cal said. “My archers and five hundred soldiers won’t last long behind their lines.”

  Daric scratched his chin. Cal was right; if the Toyans weren’t there, he would be sacrificing the Cren. The thought of counting on the Toyans turned his gut, but it was their best chance of pushing forwards.

  “Use your judgement,” Daric told Cal. “If it looks like they won’t show, then pull back. But give them as much time as you can.”

  “We will hold,” Cal said as he, yet again, waxed his bowstring. “If the Toyans are there, we will find them.”

  Daric smiled and grabbed the tall man by the shoulder. “Good luck.”

  Cal laughed. “Luck is for children,” he said.

  Daric watched him leave, wondering if he would ever see his tall friend again.

  He gestured for the trumpeter to follow.

  He needed to get to the centre of the line, the place best suited for a push forward. Mindful of enemy arrows, he raised his round shield and scurried through the mud.

  A moment later, he heard a commotion to his left. Pausing to see what was happening, Daric watched as a dozen troopers broke through the Surabhan lines.

  To begin with, the troopers
looked shocked to have made it through, but their hesitation only lasted a second. Seeing Daric, three of them made a run for him.

  The trumpeter cried out as a sword pierced his shoulder. Daric rounded on the first trooper and took the man’s legs from under him with a wide swipe of his spear. Leaving the spear in the man’s gut—the two other troopers were too close to be fumbling around with it—he pulled his short sword and leaped at the next attacker. The trooper swung at him. Daric spun around to the right to put the attacking man between himself and the other trooper. Blocking a strike, he stepped back and let the trooper gain ground, then pulled him up short with a fast lunge, catching the man in the groin with the tip of his blade. The trooper yelled out and backed off.

  The third attacker was smaller and faster than the first two. He was using two small axes that he flourished in tight circles. Again, Daric took a step back, but this trooper didn’t fall for the trap, he merely took a measured step forward and continued to wield his axes. Daric tried for a jab, but the quick trooper sidestepped easily. Daric barely managed to duck in time as his attacker drew a wide arc with one of the axes. Daric took a step to the side and then feigned another jab. This time, when the trooper sidestepped, Daric ran at him, bashing the smaller man with his shield. Stunned, the trooper staggered back. Daric was about to thrust again when the trumpeter flashed his dagger across the trooper’s hamstring. The man went down, screaming. The trumpeter leaped on him, pinned the trooper’s arms, and then slowly forced his dagger through the gap in his armour. All the while, the trooper pleading with the trumpeter to stop.

  Thankfully, the line had closed the gap; Daric could see nothing of the other troopers who had forced their way through.

  He turned to the trumpeter. “Your shoulder, is it bad?”

  “No, sir, the cut is deep, but I can still use it.”

  “Good,” Daric said. “You’ll have to stay with me until I can find a replacement, then you can go and get it dressed.”

  The trumpeter looked disappointed but nodded.

  Another bolt of lightning struck to the north. It was close; Daric could smell a metallic tinge in the air and the flash caused a momentary silence to fall over the field. He blinked the flash away and continued east. Hopefully, the lightning had hit something important in the Kel’madden camp. The shouting and clanging of steel-on-steel started again, and the rain began to pelt down all the harder. He wondered if the Kel’madden general was cursing the weather as much as he was. The trumpeter handed him his spear—he had gone back for it. Daric thanked him but was in two minds whether or not to leave the thing. Why did they give spears to commanders? They were next to useless for close combat. Sheathing his sword, Daric marched towards the centre of the line. If his plans were going to work, he would need to prepare the men.

  Glancing to the east, he whispered a blessing for Cal’s success. The Cren might not want it, but they would need all the luck they could get.

  * * *

  Captain Vesitor stood on the forecastle of Windrunner, the lead Toyan ship. From there, he could see the fires to the northwest and hear the sounds of battle. His orders were to attack in the morning, so why had Vila’slae begun now?

  He stepped back from the rail when he heard footsteps coming from behind. His first mate was climbing the stairs with a piece of parchment in his hand.

  “Message from the cliffs, Captain.”

  Vesitor sighed. “If that woman expects me to attack at night, she got another thing coming,” he said, taking the parchment and unfolding it.

  The Surabhan are attacking.

  The city is vulnerable.

  Dock now, and take the palace.

  “Who did this come from?”

  The first mate nodded towards the cliffs. “A signal from the northern fire, sir. We think it’s from Turasan, but with the rain…” The first mate shrugged. He looked unconvinced.

  “This could be the Surabhan,” the captain said, “forcing our hand. We need more than this. Have you tried to confirm it?”

  “Yes, Captain, but we’ve had no reply yet.”

  Vesitor looked over his shoulder towards the cliff. He could hardly see them, just a faint outline of black on black. He couldn’t see the fire—if, indeed, there still was a fire. He looked down at the note. Dare he ignore it? The Merchants’ Council had put him in charge of this mission. He didn’t like it—trusting Vila’slae, of all people, was far too risky, in his view. Still, he had orders. He could not go home a failure; they would strip him of his rank and take his home. His wife would be forced into the poorhouse, or worse.

  “Move us closer,” he told the first mate. “Blow out the lanterns and bring us level with the breakers. If there’s a fire, we should see it from there. Signal the other ships to standby, I want all hands up and ready, just in case.”

  “Aye, sir.” The first mate saluted before leaving the forecastle.

  Vesitor tightened his fist around the parchment. As thunder rolled from the north, he cursed the bloody witch that had brought him here. Alliance or not; some prizes were not worth the cost.

  * * *

  Mott and the other Rukin were having a hard time holding the wildlings back. The other wolves had no head for tactics; they were ready to charge across the ford that crossed the Broan River and attack the Kel’madden without delay. Any other day, it might have worked. Today, however, there were three lines of Kel’madden archers waiting for them on the other side of the river.

  “So where’s this woman?” one of the wildlings growled.

  The wolf was referring to Elucia, the witch, who was supposed to have been there ten minutes ago. It would be her job to disperse the archers. Although how she was supposed to scatter hundreds of archers was a mystery to Mott.

  “She’s on her way,” he said.

  “You said that five minutes ago,” the wolf said. “Much more of this rain, and we won’t be able to cross the river.”

  Many of the wildlings nodded their agreement. Mott heard faint whispering within the Voice, speaking of ignoring the humans and attacking now. The pack edged forward. They were closing in on the Cren lines. Another ten paces and they would be at the river.

  “Do you want to die without tasting blood?” Nacole shouted.

  Mott hadn’t realised she was so close; he thought the she wolf was at the back, with the engineers and cooks.

  “Why are you—?”

  Nacole interrupted him. “That’s all you’ll get if you charge now: a quick death.” Nacole raised her head and, for a wonder, the wildlings quietened down. “Wait for Elucia, give yourself the best chance to fight,” she shouted.

  The wildlings eyed each other. Then, one after another, they nodded in agreement, baring their teeth at the hidden Kel’madden lines as they did so.

  “Well done,” Mott said quietly when Nacole turned away from the others. “That was very—”

  Nacole interrupted again. “I’m not going back!”

  “I – I didn’t say you should. But what about your pups?”

  “I’ll do my duty, Mott. If I don’t, my shame will reflect on them, too. The clan will take care of them if I die fighting.”

  That wasn’t what Mott wanted to hear, more grand wildling sentiment. He was sure that they wouldn’t expect a new mother to fight, but who could he ask? He would just have to keep an eye out for her.

  Finally, Mott saw Elucia’s horse trotting up from the south—at least he assumed it was Elucia, they weren’t expecting any other jewellery-clad women. A dozen of Rarshman’s cavalry surrounded the woman on all sides. They rode through the parting ranks of wildlings and Cren. She did not look pleased with her escort.

  “Who is in charge?” Elucia asked.

  “For the next few minutes, you are,” Mott replied. “Where do you want us?”

  “Clever Wolf.” Elucia smiled at him and pointed towards the river. “You don’t need to do much. Keep low and don’t make any loud noises. Can you manage that?”

  Mott nodded and
looked over to where Aleban was leading the rest of the Rukin. “I’ll send word,” he said, and then nodded to one of the Rukin who had been chosen as a runner. The wolf turned and ran to the north. Rarshman, who was with Elucia’s escort, did the same for his men. The Cren leader, Caylib, nodded his agreement.

  “Very good,” Elucia said. “Now, everybody stay back.”

  She heeled her horse forward until it was standing with its front hoof on the riverbank. Mott watched as Elucia let go of the reins and raised her hands. For a moment, he thought he could hear a high-pitched wail. Some of the wildlings grimaced and backed away, shaking their heads as if they had a fly in their ear. Nacole dipped her head and bared her teeth. Whatever they were hearing, it obviously wasn’t pleasant. For once, Mott was glad he couldn’t hear the Voice clearly.

  Elucia lowered her arms. She sat as still as a statue, apparently waiting for something. Mott heard mumbling, followed by the shushing of others. The humans were all anticipation; saddles creaked as they gazed about left and right. There wasn’t much to see, though. The rain was coming down hard, and the dark clouds made a black curtain of the night. Even the Cren seemed anxious.

  To the north, Mott heard a shrill whistling sound. And then another. And then another. After a few seconds, the air was full with squealing, chattering bats. Mott could not see from one side of the colony to the other, but if the sound was anything to go by, there were thousands of them.

  They flew overhead. The noise settled above Elucia. The old woman raised her arms again, and with a wave of her hand, the bats flew off to the east.

  Almost immediately, Mott heard the shouts of the Kel’madden. Garbled cries that he couldn’t make any sense of. A few arrows loosed, and he heard the odd clang of steel, but mostly there was the sound of panic as troopers shouted at each other. It was a shame it was too dark to see anything.